


if you're searching for me, i'm with you

by madnessiseverything



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Domestic Fluff, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, more cottage getaway time, post-159, references to 160, tiny hints of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-18 07:01:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21940123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madnessiseverything/pseuds/madnessiseverything
Summary: Jon wants to say something, wants to stop and talk, but the words stick in his throat. Martin looks up at him with a soft smile. Jon wishes he could forget about all that they left behind, all that remains out there, ready to pounce. This, he thinks to himself, this is the future I want. A house, Martin with him. Mundane issues like groceries.the one where there's domesticity
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 25
Kudos: 281





	if you're searching for me, i'm with you

**Author's Note:**

> this was written for a secret santa exchange! i hope you like it vili <3 
> 
> title from barfuß by polkageist

Daisy’s safehouse isn’t much when they unlock the door. It’s dusty, with low ceilings and mismatched furniture cramped into the small sitting area. Jon finds he couldn’t care less. They put their luggage onto the lumpy couch, Martin instantly moving to place the small bag of groceries onto the table behind it.    
  
Basira had warned them to get food beforehand. Jon is incredibly grateful for it, as he rolls his stiff shoulders and suppresses the urge to drop onto the couch immediately. Instead, he pushes open the door to their right and stares down the single bed, covered in a bright knitted blanket. Jon pointedly closed the door again. One thing at a time. He’ll bring it up later.   
  
“It’s modest.” He says, at last. Martin lets out a soft huff from his place next to the small kitchenette. Jon finds himself smiling at the sound, eyes drawn to Martin carefully removing items from the bag.    
  
“Homey,” Martin responds. His eyes briefly glance back at Jon before going back to staring at the spread of fresh veggies in front of him.    
  
“Yeah.” Jon swallows and slowly moves up. “That’s a good word for it.” Martin is clutching onto the bag like a lifeline and Jon finds himself almost reaching out. Instead, he grabs a carrot and twists it around in his hands, fingers itching to smooth out the frown on Martin’s face.    
  
Martin sighs, and straightens his shoulders. “Well. Time to get this packed away.”    
  
Jon wants to say something, wants to stop and  _ talk _ , but the words stick in his throat. Martin looks up at him with a soft smile. Jon wishes he could forget about all that they left behind, all that remains out there, ready to pounce. This, he thinks to himself, this is the future I want. A house, Martin with him. Mundane issues like groceries.    
  
“Jon?”    
  
“Oh, uh. Ye-yeah. Let’s… let’s get things unpacked.” Martin’s head is tilted slightly to the side, curiosity clear in his eyes. Jon waves a hand. Not now, he thinks. But soon. “Come on, now. I’m pretty sure some of this stuff needs to be refrigerated.”    
  
“Absolutely,” Martin responds. “Did you find the fuse box?”    
  
\---   
  
“Do you- still eat?” Martin asks, a few hours and a cleaning session later. Jon looks up from his nearly empty bag, surprised.    
  
“Well. We couldn’t grab any statements from- I assume I will need more at some point, yes.”    
  
“No I-” Martin stops, bites his lip. He flaps his arm into the direction of the stove. “I mean- that kinda food. The- meals, what we bought all that stuff for.”    
  
“Oh.” Jon leans back. Martin wrings his hands, teeth still digging into his lip. “I- well.” Jon frowns. “I don’t think I need to? I mean, the- I don’t think it has any actual effect anymore, doesn’t-” he sighs “doesn’t give me any strength. But I- well. I haven’t really eaten a normal meal in months.”    
  
Martin’s eyes widen briefly, before he starts nodding, mouth opening to speak. Jon is faster. “But- I’d like to.” Jon wants normalcy. The idea of cooking for Martin, or with Martin, of watching him move around the kitchenette, of helping him make food for them… It sounds like heaven. Jon can’t imagine anything better.   
  
Martin’s face brightens. “That’s great! Uh, yeah. It- you don’t think it’s- I don’t know… bad for you now?”    
  
Jon shrugs and gets up. “One way to find out. I will warn you, it’s been a while since I’ve cooked.”   
  
Martin follows him to the stove, hand rubbing at his neck.. “I- Yeah, same. I didn’t really…” Martin trails off and Jon gently knocks his elbow into Martin’s arm. The faraway look that had snuck into his eyes disappears and Martin clears his throat. “Uh, pasta? I think- That can’t go wrong, right?”   
  
Jon shoves a memory of horrid university dorm tales out of his head and nods. “That should work.”    
  
Martin moves to fill the pot with water while Jon stares down the rickety fridge for sauce ingredients. In the end, he decides on the squash he had grabbed in the store, remembering Georgie’s “spooptober” pasta. ‘Tis the season, he muses and places it on the well-used cutting board. He carefully does not think of the history of any of Daisy’s knives as he grabs the biggest one to halve the squash.    
  
Martin makes an inquisitive noise next to him and Jon looks up. “I haven’t had... uh, pumpkin, in ages,” Martin elaborates, placing the lid on the pot full of water. He pushes against the dials of the gas stove and flames shoot up. Jon takes a second to be grateful that the gas was still working.   
  
“It’s autumn,” Jon responds and then frowns at his own words of explanation. He meant to say something else. Martin smiles and Jon forgets all about it.   
  
“Yeah. What do you have in mind?”    
  
\---   
  
The first night in the safehouse is cold and full of tears, Martin sobbing after waking up cold and alone, fog curling around his arms. Jon scolds himself for not thinking ahead, arms wrapped tightly around the heaving shoulders of his- of Martin. He curses his terrible circulation, knows that his hands are absolutely freezing. How is he supposed to warm Martin back up like this? Martin’s arms are circled around his waist, holding on with an iron grip. Jon curls around him, quiet promises of ‘I’m here, I got you out, we left, we’re together, you’re not alone’ filling the air. They fall asleep in the single bed. Neither mentions the couch again.    
  
The second day consists of Jon refusing to leave Martin’s side, following him through the attempts at a morning routine. Martin spends an hour blushing furiously at Jon’s proximity until he grabs Jon’s hand around noon. Jon doesn’t stop burning for another hour, fingers laced with Martin’s. Martin swings their hands from time to time, a permanent smile playing around his lips. Jon knows he’d do anything to preserve this moment.    
  
They continue cooking together, with varying amounts of success. Martin pries the batteries out of the old smoke alarm on the fourth day. But Jon finds he doesn’t mind, even after the third odd-tasting dish. He enjoys cooking with Martin and Martin’s determined pride at making something fills him with a persistent warmth, curling around his heart and making him  _ happy _ .   
  
Of course, it’s not all perfect. Martin still runs cold, and Jon finds lingering fog in the corners of their bedroom on the fifth night. Martin sobs apologies into Jon’s chest and Jon whispers reassurances in return. It’s not perfect, but Jon clings to Martin and Martin clings to him in return, and they continue on.    
  
Jon doesn’t sleep well, but he sleeps better. Falling asleep curled into Martin and waking up entwined in a knot of limbs makes his heart flutter in a way he hadn’t thought himself capable of these days. The dreams are still there, but he knows he will wake up to Martin, sweet, wonderful, alive Martin, who will cook breakfast with him and smile at him in a way Jon hadn’t thought of as possible anymore.    
  
Jon feels wonderfully human, through it all.    
  
He’s proud of them, he notes on a Saturday where they stumble through teary confessions of love, explanations and boundaries. He is proud that the dam broke so quickly, that Martin stopped the motions of making tea to sit back down and ask to talk. He is proud that both their hands only shook a little, that their words were mostly coherent, that they  _ talked _ . And here they are, Martin curled into his side, dozing. Their fingers are intertwined, without (much) stuttering on their parts now. It’s calm, soft. Domestic, Jon thinks and nods to himself.    
  
“I’m happy,” Jon declares on a Monday, and finds it to be irrevocably true. Martin bursts into a smile so bright it lights up the gloomy weather outside and Jon thinks he falls even more in love if such a thing is even possible. Lord, he might combust with it all. He thinks he might need to learn to say it more often. Martin looks good with this sort of smile.   
  
“I think I’m starting to be happy again, too,” Martin responds, quiet but strong. Jon frames his face with gentle hands and kisses him. It’s far from movie screen ready, but in Jon’s humble opinion it’s absolutely perfect. Their noses bump and Martin’s arms flail for a while before wrapping around Jon, but it’s perfect. It’s  _ theirs _ . They’re in Scotland, far away from London and the mess that is the past few years. They’re in a cottage that feels like a home neither of them has had for way too long. And they’re together.   
  
The second week is cloud nine. There are all kinds of kisses, forehead kisses when Martin gets up from the couch to get something, cheek kisses when Jon turns to curl into Martin, quick pecks when passing each other on their way through the tiny cottage. Soft kisses exchanged over steaming teacups, a hand kiss where Martin tangles their fingers as they sit on the front porch and Jon absentmindedly raises their hands to his lips. A small smirk, when Martin blushes and stutters at the gesture. Jon makes a point to remember this.   
  
There are other easy gestures of affection: Martin’s hands playing with Jon’s hair and occasionally braiding it while Jon reads; Jon wrapping himself around Martin while Martin cooks, burying his face between his shoulder blades and closing his eyes. Martin presents Jon a slightly wilted flower from the fields around them and talks about how he used to press flowers. Jon listens and thinks of the poems he read what now feels like a decade ago. They seem like so much more now, with Martin talking without fear and Jon so utterly in love. He should ask about them sometime. There is no rush, after all. They have time.   
  
They grow comfortable, back to a place of affectionate ribbing, of sniping back and forth without malice. Martin jokes about the way Jon continues to say “having a statement” and Jon snipes back about Martin’s adoration of outdated tech. Things are good, better even. They shove at each other in laughter, pull each other in afterwards. Jon knows that if he could, he’d forever stay with Martin’s arms around him and his face buried in Martin’s shoulder.

The third week is soft routine. Jon wakes before Martin, but simply sits up to read until Martin turns to sleepily blink up at him and Jon leans over to kiss his forehead. Martin, proud of his newly purchased cookbook, claims breakfast duty. They go on walks, cooing over the nearby highland cows, sides pressed together underneath an umbrella. Martin talks about the old couple that always ask about how they’re doing when Martin goes into town to grab something. They eat lunch out on the porch on a rare sunny afternoon and curl up on the couch in the evening. Jon puts his head in Martin’s lap and Martin plays with his hair, twisting it into small braids from time to time while they solve increasingly ridiculous crosswords together.    
  
On a Tuesday, Jon wakes up at six in the evening to find he had fallen asleep with a book on his chest and Martin’s hand in his hair. He blushes, but Martin’s soft “hey” breaks through any embarrassment that tries to work itself up. Martin bends down a bit awkwardly to press a kiss to Jon’s nose and Jon melts. He knows there will be many evenings like this from here on out, the feeling of domestic bliss now firmly settled in his chest. He’s not letting this go any time soon.

On a Thursday, Jon sends his boyfriend off with messy hair and a smile on his face. With his mind still on the image of Martin tugging a beanie over his head before kissing Jon goodbye he picks up a statement from the box Basira sent them up. He is happy.    
  
(Much later, in a ruined landscape, Martin plays with Jon’s hair and Jon wraps himself around Martin. They refuse to let this ruin what they built between them. They continue on, press kisses against scraped skin, trade remarks back and forth over the act of changing day old bandages. Martin finds a crossword book and they solve them in the evenings, always alert. They force their way through slaughter territory, all while swinging their laced, white-knuckled hands between them. They refuse to let this win.)


End file.
